


Sea Child: A Collection

by bogfable



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: AU, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Drabble Collection, F/F, Family Drama, Fantasy, Folklore, Magical Realism, Ocean, Scotland, Scots Dialect, Selkies, lapis is a selkie, merfolk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-09-19 16:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17005380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bogfable/pseuds/bogfable
Summary: [[ This AU and fanfiction are discontinued since being developed into OCs..sorry about that! ]]Mal has lived on a tiny island in the Scottish isles all her life. She's one of the merfolk, a sea-child, a selkie.One of her mothers is a selkie too, the other is a human with fiery ginger hair. Her selkie-mother left for the sea when Mal was just days old without leaving a note or sign that she'd return. Still, Mal and Jasper wait and wait and wait for her..☾A wee collection of drabbles about this au..it's very close to my heart.. but i still don't have a coherent plotted out story yet. So this'll do for now. Enjoy!





	1. MacCoinnich

**Author's Note:**

> In which Mal joins Jasper on the fishing boat and meets an annoying fellow..

“Would ye look at that,” says one of the fishermen as we enter the fisherman’s hut. “It’s the ginger bruit.”

“MacCoinnich,” another scolds.

Mam just looks irritated. More than usual, at least.

A group of five or so men bustle about, pulling on oilskins and drinking from steaming mugs. 

“You must be her wee one,” a white-bearded, Aran-jumpered man says to me.

He holds out his hand and I shake it. His skin is weathered and rough but he shakes my hand with soft respect. The old fishermen tell tales of selkie daughters, and I can see in his kind, smiling eyes that he believes the village whispers. And that he’s not afraid. 

Mam continues to scowl as she puts on her waterproofs, buckling braces on her oilskin trousers with a grunt and a hiss as she catches her finger. The fishermen about the room exchange knowing smiles. 

I make a point to focus on flattening my brow, knowing awfully well that I inherited mam’s angry face. 

“Shouldn’t ye be in school the now, little lass?” MacCoinnich asks. He’s clean-shaven and young. And there’s a condescending laugh to the end of his words that makes me forget about not frowning. 

I look him in the eye.

“No,” I say. “I quit.”

MacCoinnich raises his eyebrows. “No ye didnae.”

“Aye. I did. I’m no going back.” 

I look around for Mam, to see if she’ll give him a good smack ‘round the head, but she’s turned around, pulling on her wellies. The white-bearded man is lighting his pipe.

“You’ll be coming wi us, then?” MacCoinnich asks.

I only nod. My old rain-coat creeks as I fold my arms. 

“Yer sure? It’s dead choppy oot there.” 

“Aye,” I say, nodding sternly. And then, as I dart away, I mutter: “Piss off.”

Mam is watching the grey sea out the shuddering window. I stand beside her and bump my head against her bicep. She startles beneath my touch before softening when she sees that it’s only me. I follow her gaze, glancing from beneath my fringe at the choppy water outside. She was looking for my mother. She always is. 

I huff against her wooly jumper. 

“What’s got into you?” Mam asks. 

I grumble.

Mam crouches in front of me as she does up my rain-coat. For a moment all I see is a mass of ginger hair before she looks up again and I see her freckles and her wide mouth as it curls up at the edges.

“I want to go home,” I mumble.

“You’ll be awright,” Mam says, dusting sand off my coat. “I cannae leave you on the island by yerself, Mal.” 

Before I can protest one of the fishermen pipe up:

“MacCoinnich was mucking wi yer wain, Jas. Being a feckin’ eejit…as usual.” 

Mam exhales, rolling her eyes.

“Fucksake,” she groans as she stands. 

Mam stands slowly, like she’s old. But he isn’t old or sick or sleepless. 

Her head is filled up with selkie song, her heart all broken —the pieces lost to the tide— and that is far, far worse.


	2. Carrying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mal drags her mam from the sea and a selkie-song is sung.

Mam is in the water. By the rock pools that jut out from the sand.

I drag her out. She’s dazed, doesn’t resist. Not even a little. 

On the shore I shout her name and shake her till she answers. She shivers in her drenched pyjamas, staring into the darkness. 

_Why where you in the sea? What were you doing?_ I want to ask. But I know why. I know. 

I don’t like to think about that. 

 

Mam looks _gone_ again by the time we get home. We’re windswept and weary. I guide her to the sofa and wrap the biggest towel we have around her shivering shoulders. Her lips are blue. 

I throw logs on the dying fire — _Clunk. Ca-thunk_ —, only a couple embers still burning faint red. Sparks crackle hungrily around the dry wood, nibbling the edges. Between crackles I hear a familiar tune.

Sea-mother is singing.

It’s moon-beautiful, her song. It’s lonely and distant. I think of whales and birds that travel many thousands of miles every year. Of sleepless 3am’s. Of standing on the end of the pier in the middle of the night, face to the endless sea. I feel so sad. So alive. So small.

Mam takes a book from the table and throws it.

I startle. 

“Stop!” she shouts. I stand by the hearth as blurry, angry tears stream from her. Mam covers her ears. She pulls her hair. She stares out the window, out to sea. 

I listen close. The sea breathes, and sighs. 

The song stops. 

I kneel in front of mam, silent as the wind whistles down our chimney. 

“It’s stopped,” I whisper.

“I just want her back,” Mam says finally, choking on tears, covering her face.

Then she crumples. She huddles by the sofa and breathes like she doesn’t want to cry. I draw closer. She heaves. I pat her shuddery back, rub circles to soothe her breathing. 

She heaves again and folds. 

She spits up sea-things: salt water, opaque sea-glass and shimmering merfolk scales that sing like faerie bells as they scatter on the floorboards.

 

_How long has all of this been inside?_

I gather it all in bowls.

 

In the bath mam washes the sea from her throat.

The pipes clunk in the walls around us, singing with the crying wind and the rattling windowpanes. 

I wash mam’s hair with the shower hose. Sand covers my hands as I lather suds against her scalp. 

I gather courage and ask: “How long have you been carrying all those sea-things?”

Mam stops washing her face. She shakes her head. 

“Probably… since carrying you,” she says, and coughs. 

I press my lips together and watch steam rise off the cloudy bathwater. 

_Does it hurt?_ I worry.

I don’t ask, though. 

 

We climb into mam’s bed, so woozy. We’re held tight by blankets, curled up like sea-snails. 

Our house rocks us, so gently, to sleep. 


	3. Of Constellations, Speckled Eggs and Sealskins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I write th closest thing to a nsfw scene as I will ever get...And I'm embarrassed. I just felt like writing something like this..  
> But I hope you enjoy at least!

Lapis led Jasper inside, in front of the fireplace. Her sealskin hung around her shoulders, trailing saltwater, her body naked beneath. Jasper was wide eyed. Along her freckled arms, hairs stood on end and caught the firelight. 

Together they sunk onto the carpet. 

Besides them, the fire crackled and danced. 

Outside, the blue-black night blinked with a million starry eyes. 

Lapis said nothing as she pulled off Jasper’s trousers, long fingers grazing skin. She heard Jasper’s heart beat and her breath catch. She smiled small with sharp teeth. 

 

Lapis’ sealskin was hung on the back of a chair, dripping. Jasper’s clothes lay about the floor. Together, they entwined their limbs, tangling themselves in each other’s hair. Lapis sat astride Jasper’s waist. Jasper’s hands, warm and rough, found their place above her hips and settled in as Lapis kissed trails of dewy freckles, following them downwards. She thought of constellations, of speckled eggs and sealskin. Of how strangely humans’ hearts flutter. Of how warm their bodies are. Especially by the fireside. 

Lapis cradled her fingers under Jasper’s ears and kissed her until she was gasping. Her face burned hot. She let her shuddering legs fall open. 

“You are so warm,” said Lapis, so softly. 

Jasper stared up at her, fiery strands of hair stuck to her rosy cheeks. 

“Your fingers are freezing,” she replied. Her smile was lopsided. 

Lapis shook her head and slipped her hands downwards, between legs. There was a hitched breath. 

“I will be gentle.”


	4. In Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Winter swallows up Mal's island with mist and storms and Mal searches for ways to warm herself.

In winter our house is a ship at sea. We rock above the waves, locked in with our hurricane lamps. My mam and I sleep in her bed, piled high with wool blankets. 

When I was wee we’d huddle together in front of the fire and Mam would read me stories. My favourite was the story of a selkie girl. Of course it was. I was only read it once or twice though, because it made mam sad and then angry and then sorry. 

When I was wee I didn’t understand why. I would throw tantrums. To me, the girl in that story was my twin. I felt robbed. 

But now, I understand. 

 

In winter barely any signal reaches our radio. Too much wind and rain. 

The signal’s too weak for a television, we don’t even own one. Most electronics we bring over from the mainland stop working after a couple of years anyway. The air here is too watery for them. 

Today the signal is particularly bad, so I perch the radio on top of my bookshelf. A crackly voice struggles through the static. It says something about the weather —maybe the windspeed— before the voice retreats back underwater. I sigh between sips of ginger tea. Warmth dances on my tongue and spreads inside my chest. Frustrated, I pull the radio from the bookshelf and sit it on my windowsill. It sputters in response. 

“…and islands…” it says. “…across Orkney…”

Then, through the gale and the rain hammering my window, I hear sea-mother singing. Long, drawn out cries, echoing along the coast. I listen. Sit tight. She sounds so sad. I wonder, as I sit, if she really is miserable or if that’s just how her song sounds. I wonder, hopefully, if she’d ever stop by to sit by the fire and eat soup until she’s warm again. Mam always says that sea-mother was cold-skinned. 

_Colder than ice-cream?_ I would ask when I was little.

Mam would laugh. _Colder than the North sea in winter-time,_ she’d tell me.

I would always shiver. And I do so now, too, wrapping my arms around myself. I begin to sip my tea again but it’s gone strangely cold and I abandon it on my bedside table. 

“Mam,” I call out, when I reach the top of the stairs.

“What?” 

“Is breakfast ready?” 

“Aye. Five minutes.”

I perch on the window-ledge that sits half-way up the stairs. 

_Five minutes isn’t ready_ , I grumble to myself. 

Icy rain pounds against the window, startling me. I rub my sleeve in circles on the foggy glass and peer out. Mist has descended on us. I can’t see the mainland anymore, nor the other side of the bay. A lonesome gull spirals above the island. He’s caught, hopelessly, in an up-draught, spinning and lurching. The waves are violent today. They tear at the rocky shoreline so mercilessly that I worry they’ll start taking pieces of the island away with the tide. In a great storm, a long time ago, the old pier was washed away completely. Mam built the new one when I was wee though, and it’s sturdy, like she is. It’s survived a decade so far. Not many things survive that long on our island.

 

Mam and I eat breakfast hungrily, barely talking. Hot tea, eggs and toast fill my stomach and warm me from the inside out. 

“Are ye going to work at all today?” I ask, mopping bread across my plate. 

Mam gets up from the table and refills the kettle. 

“I don’t have a death-wish, Mal,” she says. 

She’s gruff today, her usual self. That’s good. Even if she’ll scold me when I forget to clean my dishes. At least she’s not dreaming. 

 

As the night turns inky black and sea-mist swallows our island whole Mam and I huddle together in her bed. She lies back, reading, as I hunch forward and draw. It’s hard to see what I’m doing in flickery light of the dim bedside lamp but I make do. My pagefuls of merfolk will just be a wee bit wonky when I look at them in the morning. 

Wind howls down the chimney. Rather than shouting, the fire crackles, spitting fussy sparks onto the hearth.

“Oh, _wheesht_ ,” I grumble. 

Mam smiles to herself. 

 

Our house is like a kettle in winter — it whistles. Sea-wind is sneaky, you see. It finds every single crack between your walls, yours windows and doors and barges in. 

Once, when I was wee, the wind blew open my bedroom window and I jumped out of bed, shouting: _You are not invited!_

 

“Mal,” Mam says. “Gonnae put the light off?”

I sigh against my paper. “Awright.”

Mam sets her book down on the bedside table, I drop my pencil-case and sketchbook onto the floor. 

“Now?” I ask, already turning the switch at the base of the lamp.

“Aye.” 

Mam lies down fully, pulling the blankets up to her chin.

I do the same, curling up tight. Now that I’m still, the cold creeps beneath the duvet and wools, making me shiver despite the smouldering fire. I turn over to face Mam, who’s already asleep, already beginning to snore. She breathes through her mouth. 

In 

and out. 

In 

and out. 

Like the shore. 

I drift off, Mam, the sea and the wind all breathing winter-breath dreams. 

 

In 

and out.


	5. To Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jasper's pregnancy of Mal brings strange things.

When mam carried me —deep inside— she grew patches of merfolk skin. It bloomed on her stomach, appeared in patches on her arms and the nape of her neck. 

All shiny and glimmering. Dark sea colours. 

She hid it with jumpers and scarves, sweating in the summer months. 

She cried in the mirror as it speckled her face.

“Why do you cry?” asked my sea-mother, stood in the doorway, dripping.

Mam asked her if all of this was permanent. If all the sea-calling and swimming and howling winds in her head would last. Sea-mother stared down at her sandy feet, bare on the floorboards.

“The skin will go,” she said.

 

And she was right. In the days after I was born mam’s merfolk skin fell off in scales. She found them in the cupboards, in her pockets and the bath. They appeared on the table and her pillow and tangled in my cot-blankets.

They sung as they were swept up.

The scales weighed nothing, reflecting colours like insect wings. I watched them reflect, spellbound. 

Again, mam cried in the mirror when she saw the scars left upon her skin. 

“The sea spoke of this,” whispered sea-mother. She brushed mam’s hair from her face, wiped her tears. “Merfolk skin isn’t meant for humans to keep.” 


End file.
